A Night in the Alley
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: You know you're in for a rough night when encountering a drunk woman with a giant rifle is the least strange thing that happens to you.


**A Night in the Alley**

He'd be turning seventeen this November. Which meant that after that point, he'd only have to wait a year before being able to vote (yay) or potentially being drafted (piss off). But even at the age of eighteen, that meant it would be another three years before he'd be allowed into a bar. Because that was how this damn country worked.

Of course, he had way of getting around these things. Half of the bottle shops in San Francisco didn't bother asking for ID, and the other half didn't bother calling the cops when the gig was revealed. But then again, Jim's Bar wasn't a bottle shop. Jim's Bar was an upmarket establishment in one of the seedier parts of town. Which, from what he'd heard, made it premium real estate compared to Los Angeles. Though that wasn't what he was hearing now. What he was hearing was the sound of police sirens, and walking down 8th Street, he could see the police cars as well. Quite a lot of them. Cops going somewhere fast to do something that would likely wind up on the news in six hours' time, and on the Internet on one hour's time. Stuff that he might find out about himself if he decided to give a shit. Which, unless something changed, he wouldn't.

He walked down the alley and came to a door marked **EMPLOYEES ONLY**. He went to knock, but hesitated, casting a look further down the alley in question. Someone was there. There was movement. There was a potential witness for a teenager going to a door that he most certainly wasn't meant to enter. He…

He let out his breath as he saw a rat scurrying along, having emerged from under the alley's dumpster.

_God damn it, I'll be jumping at ghosts next. _Smiling, he knocked at the door. Two thumps, followed by three quick taps. He took a step back and waited for it to open. Which, ten seconds later, it did, revealing a man wearing an apron around his chest, and a scowl around his lips.

"You're late," the man grunted.

He threw his arms wide. "Can't rush business Hakim."

"Considering that my business with you is illegal, I'd much rather rush it."

"Coming from the illegal alien himself." He smiled as he saw a flash of panic on Hakim's eyes. "Relax pal, I don't rat people out." He took off his backpack and out of the front pocket drew out a fifty. "Got my stuff?"

Hakim nodded, took the fifty, and closed the door. To one uninitiated with the night life, they might have wondered if one of Jim's Bar's illustrious employees had reneged on their arrangement. Still, he'd been doing this for awhile. And sure enough, a minute later, the door opened, with Hakim holding the handle in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other.

"Here," Hakim said. "Chardonay, 2015."

The teen smiled, took it, and stuffed it in his backpack. "You're a lifesaver Hakim."

"Hardly. That stuff can kill you you know."

He shrugged and looked back out at the street, at yet another cop car barrelling down the road. "Any idea what that's about?" he asked.

Hakim shrugged. "Some shooting, somewhere."

"And? That's like a Tuesday in this city."

"News anchor says we're talking military grade stuff. Also, no bodies, no blood, but some kind of scorch marks." In spite of everything, Hakim smiled. "Why? You think they're on to you Reese?"

The teenage boy shrugged.

"I don't even know why you bother with wine. Can't you go to a bottle shop?"

"Hakim, you've got to learn to enjoy the finer things in life. That's what the American Dream is all about."

Hakim didn't look ready to enjoy anything. So, softening his tone a little, Reese asked, "how's Fareeha?"

"Bad," Hakim said, his eyes and voice both low. "Very bad. She…well, she's not getting any better."

"But you can…" Reese trailed off. He was going to ask about medicine, but he was willing to bet that a bartender's salary wasn't enough to cover household expenses, plus a sick child.

"Listen," Hakim said, looking back inside. "I've got to go. I-"

"Here."

The man stared at the twenty Reese had pulled out of his backpack. The eyes of the living stared into the dead eyes of Andrew Jackson.

"Reese, I don't need charity."

"It isn't charity. It's just a tip for good service."

Hakim, after a moment, took the twenty and pocketed it. Reese knew it wouldn't make much difference. But the way Hakim looked at him before closing the door…well, that counted for something at least. He put his backpack back on and got ready to head out of the alley.

"I knew a Reese once."

He spun around. "The hell?"

There was no sound. No movement. But he had ears, and he had heard where those words had come from. So gingerly, and ignoring the voice in his head to just get out of there, he slowly walked around the dumpster.

"He was a much better class of criminal than you were."

And he stared at the sight before him.

There was a woman sitting against the alley wall, right next to the dumpster. By his guess, she was somewhere in her fifties or sixties. Her face was wrinkled, her blonde hair was wispy, and her eyes were bloodshot. Which he guessed was down to the six pack of beer she had next to her, only two of which were remaining. But that wasn't the strangest thing – he'd seen plenty of drunks before. No. What _was _strange was that she was wearing body armour of some kind.

She looked up at him, holding her fourth beer can. "Want some?" she asked.

Reese didn't answer. Because he was still processing the strangest thing of all – that the woman had some kind of rifle over her lap like nothing he'd ever seen. Very big, very pointy, with some kind of drum feed.

"No?" the woman asked. "What, you get fine wine, and fancy dining, but too good to drink from the swill?"

Reese took a step back. "I'm fine, thanks."

The woman snorted and took another sip. "Fine. Of course you're fine. Whole world's fine these days. Even the cops will be fine since I've done their dirty work for them."

Reese blinked. "They're after you?"

"Relax kid, I didn't kill anyone." Reese saw her glance at the dumpster before looking back at him. Squinting through the gloom. "How old are you anyway?" she asked.

"Um…twenty-one."

"Don't B.S. me kid, twenty-one year olds don't go to side doors of bars to get alcohol. And they don't give out twenties to nobodies."

Reese frowned at her.

"Don't get antsy kid, we're all nobodies in this fucking world."

The woman might have been drunk, but at least she wasn't racist. So there was that, he supposed.

_I should go, _Reese reflected as the woman took the largest sip yet of her beer. _I should really, really go._

"Y'know, it's funny," the woman slurred. She leant back against the wall, as if reclining on the beach. "You look just like him."

"Um…"

"Course you're not. He's dead. They're both dead." The woman tilted her head to the side. "Long dead. They're dead, and you're alive after what they did."

"Um…thanks for Jesus?"

The woman let out a snort. Which became a cough. Which became a freak show as beer was spat on the pavement. He recoiled, and right on cue, to make his life miserable, his phone began to ring.

_Son of a… _He yanked it out of his pocket. "Yes? Kyle speaking."

"Kyle, where the hell are you?"

_Oh Christ. _"Out, mum."

"Out? Where's out?!"

"Out and about. Like you might do if you and dad didn't have a stick up your arse."

"Kyle, if you don't come home right this minute I-"

He shut her off. He knew that when he got home, he'd have explaining to do at best, and chores to do at worst. Ever since he'd become a teenager his parents had become dicks. Especially after he'd got the motorcycle and promptly crashed it. Smiling at the thought of _that _particular incident, he pocketed the phone, and-

"Jesus!"

The woman had got to her feet and was staring at him. Like a zombie who'd suddenly gained intelligence.

"Kyle?" she whispered.

"Um, listen," he said, backing away. "It was really nice talking to you, but my mum wants me home to yell at me, so I'll be going and-"

"Kyle Reese?"

He tried to run but she grabbed his arm and pushed him against the wall. His backpack fell on the ground, and he began to sweat and squirm like a pig.

"Listen, lady," he said, trembling. "Just, take my wallet, okay? I saw nothing, said nothing, just gah!"

She'd grabbed him by the throat and was turning his head around. Examining him. He protested, tried to ask here what she was doing. Even tried to kick her, but it did no good. The only recourse was when she suddenly let go, leaving Kyle to fall onto the ground, spluttering.

"Lady, what the fuck is wrong with you?!" He rose to his feet and watched as she staggered back, a hand to her mouth, as if in shock.

"Seventeen," she whispered. "If John lived to be seventeen…"

Kyle had no idea who this "John" was. Right now, he didn't care.

"Both of you," she whispered. She looked up, sniffed, and Kyle could swear she was on the verge of tears. "You're like both of them. More than you know."

He wanted to run. He really, _really _wanted to run. He was in the company of a drunk crazy lady with a weapon nearly as long as he was tall, and he had no doubt that she was the one the cops were after. And yet, he stayed. Because if nothing else, this woman was in distress. And as terrible as the world was, he…

"Holy shit."

She was bleeding from her left side. He rushed over and saw a red stain form on her black t-shirt.

"Lady, I think you need to get to a hospital."

"No. No hospitals."

She seemed to have recovered herself a bit. But she was still staring at him in a strange way. Like he was under the microscope or something.

"Ma'am, if you don't stop that bleeding, you…"

"Trust me kid, I've dealt with worse. There's four things I always travel with, and bandages are among them." She sipped more of her beer and tossed the can to Kyle, who caught it. Not sure whether he wanted to ask what the other three things were.

Also not sure what to do, if anything. Because he was still standing in an alley with a wanted felon, holding her empty beer can, and looking at a woman who looked like she was on the verge of tears. And why he was still here at all, he couldn't say. A sane person would have just upped and run. And while a delinquent and a nobody, Kyle Reese knew he was at least sane.

"What are the other things?" he murmured.

Or maybe not.

"Guns, beer, and potato chips."

"Uh-huh." He forced a smile. "Of course." He went to open the dumpster to drop the beer can in. "Well, listen, it was nice and all talking to you and holy shit!"

He dropped the can, but not in the dumpster. Because there was a girl's body inside, and the sight had made his hand a mite twitchy.

"I…oh my God…" He looked at the woman, who to his horror, had picked up her weapon, and despite the alcohol, looked capable of using it. "What…what is…did you kill her?!"

"It isn't a her."

"Oh boy." Kyle backed against the wall and put a hand to his mouth. "I…I think I'm gonna throw up…"

"Don't kid, even I managed not to do that the first time."

"First time?" He looked at her in horror. "How many people have you killed?"

"None." She snorted. "Told you earlier Kyle, I didn't kill anyone. Though granted, I didn't say I didn't kill any_thing_."

This was it, Kyle reflected. The woman was crazy. He was in a dark alley with his pants down, and right now, all there was to do was run to the cops. So, taking a breath, he proceeded to do just that. But was stopped short as the woman grabbed his arm and dragged him over to the dumpster.

"Look at her."

Kyle, trembling, let out a stammer. "Please, don't hurt me…"

"Look at her!" the woman yelled.

Still trembling, Kyle opened his eyes and stared at the body.

"Look at her," the woman whispered.

Kyle did. He looked. He stared. At the girl's face. At how her scalp had been torn off. How one side of her face was made of metal. At the artificial eye, looking up at him alongside an organic one. It was like she was some kind of machine. A cyborg. Slowly, he turned and looked at the woman. "What is this?" he whispered.

"This?" She snorted. "This is a Terminator. The one who arrived in San Francisco less than an hour ago."

"A whatsinator?"

"_Terminator_," the woman said, not bothering to hide her aggravation. "T-900 Cyberdyne Systems Model TOK-715. Toughest bitch I've dealt with so far."

None of that meant anything to Kyle apart from the word "Cyberdyne." It sounded vaguely familiar…something about a terrorist attack in the 90s that had led it to declare bankruptcy a few years later, if he recalled correctly. It briefly occurred to him that the woman before him might be such a terrorist. That, in addition to being a murderer of girls…who just happened to have cybernetic implants that appeared to use technology that didn't even exist.

He wondered if he'd had too much to drink and was hallucinating. But then again, he hadn't had anything to drink this night at all. The woman before him had though. He looked as how with one hand, she clenched her side – the one where the shirt was still stained. And how with the other, she drew a cylinder out of her belt.

"This is my life," the woman murmured. "Not yours. Not anymore."

Kyle wasn't sure what to say. Only "we should really, really get you to a hospital."

"Nup. Not for me kid. Besides, I need to be in Mexico in three days' time. Besides…" She grimaced as she fiddled with the cylinder. "I've been in a hospital before. And I'm not going back there."

Kyle decided not to ask her what type of hospital it was. What he did ask her though, as she dropped the device into the dumpster, as fire began to spread, was "what are you doing?!"

"Burning it." She looked at him. "Usually I have a site for these things, but I don't have time. Thermite works all the same though."

Kyle staggered back, shielding himself from the heat. Whatever the substance was, it was disintegrating the dumpster and anything in it in a fire that was burning too bright and too fierce for simple combustion. But more importantly, he could see it burning the girl's body. The flesh, and beneath it, her skeleton. Her metallic, shining skeleton. Burning along with the dumpster and everything in it.

_This isn't real._

But it was. He wasn't drunk, or high, or dreaming, so what other explanation was there? He looked as the woman casually picked up the remaining beer in one hand, and her weapon in the other, slinging it over her shoulder. Taking a breath and putting on his backpack, he began to head back towards 8th Street.

"Kyle."

And stopped short, before turning around to look at the woman. He could tell that she was wounded. Not physically, but emotionally. The way she talked, the way she looked at him. Like his mother did when she was disappointed with him – a common occurrence these days.

"I know…" She took a breath. "I know this won't mean anything to you, but…thank you."

"For what?" Kyle whispered.

"For saving me. Even…even when I couldn't save him. I…" She sniffed, and he saw her wipe away a tear. "I stopped it from happening Kyle. But I couldn't save John."

She was right about one thing, Kyle reflected. It didn't mean anything to him. He'd never seen this woman before, and given her gun, her armour, and her apparent ability to kill cyborgs, he couldn't imagine ever saving her from anything. But nevertheless, he let her put his hands on his shoulders and give him a smile. Like his mother might have done.

"Stand straight, soldier," the woman whispered.

"Yeah," he whispered. He backed away, looking at the woman, who stood there, watching him. "Whatever you say."

He turned, and began to walk out of the alley. A second after that, he began to run. But not before pausing at the edge of the street to look back. To behold the burning dumpster, and the molten metal pooling around its base.

At the woman who was walking through the darkness the opposite direction, the flames casting shadows upon her back.

* * *

_A/N_

_Hah! I can write a _Dark Fate _oneshot without having to post a spoiler warning! Finally! _

_Anyway, this came from two ideas, or rather, suggestions. The first was that _Kyle Reese _could appear in a sequel to _Dark Fate_. Now, if we put Reese's birth year as 2003/04, then he should be 16/17 by the time the film takes place. Not too young to take part, and certainly old enough if a sequel takes place a few years later. Speaking personally, I kind of like that idea. I mean, if adult Sarah saw child Kyle...well, that could be interesting._

_The other idea came from a statement from Tim Miller that Kyle Reese no longer exists in the timeline. Now, this pissed off some people, but it actually makes sense. Judgement Day originally occurred in 1997, Reese was born 6/7 years later. It stands to reason that the events that led to his birth in a JD timeline wouldn't follow in a different timeline. Now, that Kyle seems to exist regardless is a premise that numerous media has run with, but from a logical standpoint, his absence would make sense. Doesn't stop me from liking the first idea though._

_Anyway, drabbled this up._


End file.
